Of a Mobile
by Seven Positions
Summary: Near sometimes had a dream of a mobile hanging above his head, twirling brightly-colored stars around its plastic axis softly while Somewhere Over the Rainbow played in electronic tones. Near-centric, no romance.


**Hello, everybody. I don't know if you know me (this is a new fandom- I have like fifteen million fandoms though) but if you do I _promise _to update BGB soon.**

**Now, allow me to introduce:**

**Of a Mobile**

**Characters: From the series: Near, Hal, Roger. Near-centric.**

**Warnings: Um, actually, none. Like, at all. I don't even think I swore.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine!**

**Posted: 8:55 EST June 6th, 2008**

* * *

Near sometimes had a dream of a mobile hanging above his head, twirling brightly-colored stars around its plastic axis softly while Somewhere Over the Rainbow played in electronic tones.

He was born with his white hair and pale skin, but until his eyes had been exposed to the bright lights of the maternity ward for a few short hours, they had been largely unaffected by his albinism.

The mobile was the only memory of color he had, and it only surfaced in his dreams.

* * *

When Nate River was five, the neighbors knocked on the door and no one responded.

It had been over a month since they'd seen anyone go in or out. The Rivers had had financial troubles, and had probably skipped out of town, they said. Rumors began to circulate, but no one wanted to investigate. The Rivers hadn't been very social.

About a week later, a large crash sounded from inside the house. The police were summoned to search for burglars, or a rabid animal.

What they found was a small boy. He wore a hat pulled so far down his head he could hardly see out of his deep brown eyes.

When they brought him into the sunlight, he cowered, hiding his face. They had to carry him to the car as he shielded himself.

* * *

At three years old he had already conquered his favorite puzzle. It was one-thousand pieces.

The tiny boy was already learning many things. One of these things was that his mother loved him very much, except when he took off his hat.

Another was that his father was ashamed of the way his son sheltered himself, refusing to go outside, refusing to play with the other children. He was ashamed of the way his wife babied the boy. He was ashamed of most everything, which made him angry in turn.

His mother cried a lot.

His father was often gone.

His mother always spoke to him about the pretty colors. (After a while, he began to pretend he could see them, too.)

His father couldn't hold down a job.

They didn't have enough money.

Nate sat inside all day, reading and writing and completing puzzles and sometimes, just thinking. His mother would watch him, stroking his face.

When his hair became too long to keep under the hat anymore, his father would begrudgingly cut it down until it was just the right length to hide for another few months.

Nate knew that his hair was wrong.

He knew a lot of things, for a three year old.

* * *

At six, a man named Roger came to visit him.

"Hello, Nate."

The boy watched him warily from under his hat, fingers still resting on a six-sided die.

Roger had a kind face, unlike the woman they told him was his second cousin, a middle-aged woman named Angela. When they found him seven months ago, she took him in. She thought it was strange that he wore his hat all the time. Everyone knew, he supposed, about his white hair, but it made him feel better to know that he could still hide it.

It wasn't normal. His mother had hated it. _He _hated it.

"Nate, we have found your parents."

The boy's hand tightened around the die, and his eyes grew wide.

Roger's face drooped. He knelt down to the boy's level and his gaze fell upon the dice tower that was just beginning to form on the kitchen floor. "That's wonderful."

Nate lifted the die and placed it on top, lining it up perfectly with the ones below it. Even though his body was tense, waiting for the man to tell him what he had come to tell him, he still placed the die with practiced precision.

"Unfortunately, Nate," Roger started, "they've been in an accident. Neither of them survived."

Something flashed behind the child's eyes.

"That's alright," he said in his tiny voice, sending the tower crashing to the ground with a sweep of his hand.

* * *

"Near?"

Near's eyes blinked open. He had fallen asleep hunched over in the middle of his newest creation: a huge castle of dice, which filled the entire room. A single die sat next to him, the final piece. The young man hadn't slept in days.

He had dreamt in the short time he had allowed himself to slumber. Somewhere Over the Rainbow still echoed in his mind as he lightly stepped over the shortest wall of the castle to see what Hal wanted from him.

* * *

Near's mother's name was Maggie. His father's name was Art.

Maggie River had long, straight, honey-brown hair and pretty blue eyes. She was a tiny, wispy beauty.

Arthur had strong, dark features.

One day, while their son slept, dreaming in color of a plastic mobile, Maggie had a breakdown. They packed their belongings and fled.

As they drove all that night, Maggie clutched a tired, worn bunny to her chest. She stroked its face, cooed soft words to it, praised it and hugged it. She called it Nate. Her honey hair cascaded over its limp, white frame.

When she wasn't talking to it, she was singing absently to it, staring out the window.

Art waited until she was asleep and drove to the edge of a cliff. He got out and sat on the hood of the car, sucking down a cigarette.

The boy had been a nuisance, all of his life. He was sickly. He was different. He was the only thing Maggie paid attention to. They both stayed inside all day, the boy doing nothing but reading or playing with his stupid jigsaw puzzle, and Maggie doing nothing but watching him with a look of brainless adoration on her face.

Art wanted to know what had ever happened to the smart, beautiful woman he had married—the one who had been in love with him. He wanted to know where he fit into their family.

Maggie had gone crazy. He had caught her cutting Nate out of every single picture they had of him, blood running down her left arm from a long, straight cut at her elbow. When she saw him watching her, she stood and fled with the scissors into the boy's room.

When he opened the door, Art saw his wife holding the scissors above her beloved son's innocent form and lunged forward, seizing her tiny body before she could harm him.

She sobbed loudly and the child stirred. Art pulled Maggie out of the room before he could blink his big, brown eyes open.

And they had fled together.

Art knew what had to be done. She sat in the passenger seat, still stroking the bunny's head with her long fingers in her sleep. Her arm had been bandaged. And he knew what had to be done.

He slid off the hood and put out his cigarette, then got into the car.

As the vehicle careened off the edge of the cliff, he watched his wife's pretty blue eyes open. She didn't scream, just held tight to the threadbare bunny and whispered comforting words in its ear.

* * *

"_Your new name… is Near."_

"_Near? …May I ask why…?"_

* * *

Ever was nine years old, and she'd been in the orphanage as long as she could remember.

There was a new little boy who always wore his hat pulled over his head like he wanted to hide himself. She herself hadn't heard him speak, though other kids had reported hearing very sparse sentences from him in class. Sometimes he could be found building things out of things such as dice and cards and toothpicks.

One day, about eight months into his stay at Wammy's, he appeared without his hat on. No one recognized him, first, with his long white mane of hair, until he entered the class and took his usual seat.

Whispers erupted as he hunched over, still trying to hide himself.

At lunch, Ever approached him in the nearly-empty television room, being sure to stay clear of the beginnings of his card tower. He watched her warily.

"Hello. My name is Ever," she said, sitting cross-legged on the floor. They peered at each other through the levels of playing cards. "What's yours?"

After a moment, he picked up two more cards and concentrated on placing them just right. "…Near."

"What happened to your hat?" she asked. She found his voice pleasing.

He hesitated. "I ripped it."

"Why?" she said softly, curling her fingers into her jeans. He suddenly looked so sad, his brown eyes avoiding hers.

"I don't know, I don't know…" he murmured, continuing to build. His hands began to shake slightly. "I don't know what I was doing… It was very irrational… I…"

Near's hands knocked the entire wall of cards down. He sat on the floor, one knee drawn up to his chest, and stared at the ground in shock. Ever reached forward to brush his hair out of his eyes in what she thought was a comforting gesture, but when her hand touched him, he jerked away, heaved himself up, and ran.

* * *

"Nate, look at these flowers. Aren't they such a pretty purple?"

"…Yes."

_She turned around, clutching a worn bunny doll, the tips of her honey-brown hair beginning to burn._

* * *


End file.
